He had given me ‘that look.’
Savile Row was in Mayfair. It was a part of London I knew well, with tailor shops for gentlemen, and included one with a royal warrant, Henry Poole & Company, which had provided military tailoring for officers for decades, from before the Battleof Waterloo. Along with one dress uniform of a Montgomery cousin that was presently in the sword room at Sussex Square.
The foyer of Henry Poole & Co. of London was tastefully furnished and might have been the entrance to any private residence at St. James's or Portman Square, with thick carpet, a mahogany desk, an attendant who greeted us, and a long hallway that extended to the back of the shop, no doubt with fitting rooms and work areas.
“Lady Forsythe,” the young man acknowledged when I gave my name, then slanted more than one curious glance at Brodie, the bruise below his eye now a glorious shade of purple.
Brodie explained the reason we were there, after finding an unusual button and the need to determine who it might belong to.
“Of course,” the young man replied, somewhat hesitant and with another glance at Brodie.
“I will inform our concierge.”
“Bloody hell,” Brodie commented as the young man departed. “Wot the devil is a concierge?”
With experience limited to ladies’ dress shops, it was safe to assume it was much the same in a men’s shop, particularly one that provided formal wear and waistcoats to gentlemen across London that included members of the royal family.
“It would perhaps be the manager of the shop,” I ventured to guess as the man returned and introduced a formally dressed man, Mr. Hendley.
He stared at Brodie for a moment, then cleared his throat.
“How may I assist you?”
Brodie explained the reason for our visit once more, and we were escorted into a private office that resembled a small sitting room, furnished with a mahogany desk and chairs.
“May I see the item?”
I retrieved the button and handed it across the desk. Mr. Hendley laid it on a white linen cloth, then took out a looking glass and examined the button.
“It is finely made. Real gold, I would say, not plated, with a somewhat unusual insignia.”
“Do you recognize it?” I inquired.
“Not precisely.” He looked up. “Yet, there are many family crests and marks that our clients request.”
He removed a book from one of the desk drawers. It was bound in leather and embossed across the front with the name of the company. It appeared to be a catalogue of crests and emblems. He scanned the first page, then a handful more. He shook his head.
“We do keep a reference for all our work. That crest is not among them.” He was thoughtful. “It does seem to be the style that might be used by a private gentlemen’s club.
“There are several, as well as fraternal orders, religious symbols, insignias that have a personal meaning. However, this does not appear to have been made by our people.”
It was disappointing, still it was possible that the button had been made in one of the other shops. We inquired at two more shops nearby and received the same answer.
“It is possible the button was made elsewhere, perhaps Paris or another city. It does seem that Adele DeMille entertained a variety of‘guests.’”
We entered the next shop, Gieves & Hawkes, a well-known clothier for members of Parliament and other gentlemen.
As with the other shops we had called upon, it was furnished as one might expect in a fine home, with a front counter where we were greeted by an older man in a finely made suit. And as before, Brodie explained the reason for our visit.
“Of course,” he replied. “Please wait here.”
Another man appeared and introduced himself with a polite smile as Mr. Soames.
I showed him the gold button which he examined under a glass, also as before, his assistant moving closer for a look as well.
“Most impressive work, a wolf’s head. The insignia is somewhat unusual, perhaps for a member of a private club.” He turned it over and noted the letters on the reverse, usually etched by the craftsman who had made them.
“R.M. The letters do not mean anything to me, certainly not one of our clients.”
